FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!

FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! Sandy Hook! Aurora! Boston! False Flags are everywhere! They do it to keep us scared so they can introduce martial law and inject us all with the MMR vaccine! None of it's real and even if it is real it's fake! Open your eyes and you'll see the false flags everywhere! It all adds up to something! Terrorists on TV? FALSE FLAG! High school shooting spree? FALSE FLAG! Neighbour's chimney caught fire? FALSE FLAG! Two dogs fighting in the park? FALSE FLAG! It's fake calamity designed to make us panicked and hysterical so we'll do as THEY say! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!

I went to see that James Bond film that was out recently. At the start of the film a bad fella fired a bazooka at 007. Being no complacent slouch I had my eye on my watch. By my timing, the bad fella fired the bazooka at exactly 9 minutes and 11 seconds into the film. 9 minutes and 11 seconds. 9-11! I immediately stood up and started shouting 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' Then some Illuminati guy disguised as an usher asked me to leave the cinema. Everyone clapped as I was escorted to the door. They clapped! The Goddamn sheeple clapped!

My sister rang the other day. I asked how she was. She said she was grand but her bike got a puncture and she had to walk to the library. Puncture!!! There are eleven characters in the word 'Puncture!!!' (if you include the three exclamation marks) ALSO! - if you turn the first letter of the word, the 'P', backwards, you get a '9'. 9-11! 9-11! 9-11! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! I said as much to my sister. I roared the warning at her. Sheepishly, she hung up the phone. I think they've gotten to her. I think they've MMRed her already!

Even The Mother is in on it! I shouldn't be surprised that she's on their side. She was always a suspicious sort. The other day The Mother faked a tumble on the stairs. 'I've taken a tumble on the stairs' says The Mother, lying there acting all injured and false flagging her head off. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!', roars me. You'd do the same in the face of such deception. I stood there yelling it! Tell the world, I thought. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' I screamed as The Mother crawled to her emergency button and the St. John Ambulance arrived giving me these really Illuminatish looks.

It's getting so bad I'm beginning to suspect I might be in on it myself. Just yesterday I was getting out of the shower and the floor was wet and I fell on my arse and smashed my coccyx to smithereens. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' I started roaring. No one heard me. I was roaring it for hours. I'm still roaring it now. This false flag hurts like fuckity. When are those St. John Ambulance Illuminati bastards going to show up and help me out here? Where are they? I'm cold. I'm hungry. I'm false flagged out of it. But at least I know what's going on. At least I'm not part of the Matrix. At least I have woken up! I might be sore, cold, wet, and hungry but I will not be their hysterical pawn. I may be banjaxed here screaming on the bathroom floor but FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! ...don't say you weren't warned!

...jaysus, I need the jax now too.

NUUUURRRRR BRRRR or BAD IMAGINATION

 
After writing the previous post I got to thinking; we should rebel against the Observer Effect (explanation: once observed, a wave function transforms into teeny weeny particles that combine to make up our universe – Why? Who knows?). It’s high time the mystifying tyranny of quantum physics was resisted. For too long this subatomic dictator has kept us in the dark as to the workings of our reality. We are the ones who have to inhabit reality so I think it only fair that quantum physics give us some answers. All we know is that for something to exist it must be observed. Well, let’s use that paltry knowledge to strike back.

‘But how Mr Fugger’, I hear you whinge in a high-pitched and frankly pansy-like way. I’ll tell you how. If the principle is that things must be observed to exist then let’s start observing things that don’t exist. Example – say you don’t have a car. Well, tomorrow I want you to leave your home, pretend to open a car door, pretend to put a key in an ignition, put your hands on an imaginary steering wheel, make a car-like noise (like ‘nuuuurrrrr’ or something) and drive to work. Sure, you’ll look like a total fuckin’ eejit but it’ll be one in the eye for the quantum bastard. You’ll be breaking the only law of this befuddling reality that we can get a purchase on. Quantum physics has been confounding us since we first discovered it. Let’s have our revenge. Let’s drive imaginary cars. You might feel a fool but soon everyone will get in on it and we’ll all be nuuuurrrrring up and down the road in non-existent cars. We’ll even be nicking these cars from each other and reporting it to the police who’ll pursue the culprits in equally unreal automobiles (whilst roaring ‘mee maw, mee maw’). The subatomic world won’t know what to do with itself. We’ll show it that we can play silly buggers too. Maybe then it’ll start yielding some answers and show us the way out of the existential maze it has us all lost in. You’ll be able to have any type of car you like too and not just the banger you drive around in now.

It won’t stop there of course. We’ll be adding imaginary extensions to our houses. Dropping imaginary kids off to imaginary schools before going to an imaginary gym and then doing an imaginary day’s work. We’ll walk imaginary dogs. We’ll watch movies that were never made. We’ll read books that no one thought to write. We’ll sunbathe in the rain, swim on the sand, and build sandcastles in the sea.
‘Mmmm, this ice cream is delicious.’
‘Really, what flavour is it?’
‘Whatever damn flavour I want it to be.’
Just think of the liberation. We’ll all be Gods! Personally, I’m going to build a rocket out of nothing and head off to the outer reaches of nowhere. Fwoosh!


Now, some might argue that we already have the power to make the non-existent real. These people might say, for example, that if we get the idea that we want a nice car we can design one and build it or that we can save the money for it and, hey presto, there it is. These people might say that reality is made from ideas and that ideas come from nothing. These people might say the quantum deal is a pretty sweet one. These people might argue that my proposal lacks pragmatism and that you can’t treat people in imaginary hospitals or go to sea in an imaginary boat. But these people, (and by ‘these people’ I of course mean The Mother and her insufferably argumentative nature) are appeasers. These people are willing to hone the expertise and do the labour required to make something out of nothing but that is just willing slavery to my eyes. These people (a.k.a. The Mother) are willing to endlessly toil in the quantum mystery order as long as it awards them petty material compensations and a certain sense of stability but I say ‘No!’ I say: ‘No, The Mother, this is inequality and it will not stand.’ That’s what I said to The Mother yesterday as she made the Sunday dinner. Then she put an empty plate in front of me. ‘And what do you call this?’ I asked her, hungry as I was. ‘Whatever you like’, she said, all smart, and then she wandered off to the other room to watch an episode of Midsomer Murders that had actually been made - as opposed to 'made up'. Outraged, I stormed out of the house and drove off in my imaginary car. Nuuuurrrrr.


A funny thing happened though; I ran out of non-existent petrol and broke down on an imaginary motorway. I tried to ring the imaginary services on my make believe mobile but the bloody thing was out of pretend credit. I had to sleep the night in the imaginary car. No matter how many imaginary blankets I pulled over myself, it was bleedin’ freezing and I caught a non-existent cold. I should have known something like that would happen. I always did have a bad imagination. Brrrrr.

A BLOG POST FROM THE FUTURE

An observation drone followed me all the way home the other day. It was whirring away about eight feet above my head and making me nervy. I wasn't a happy man. When I got home I rang the security company that made the drone and asked what was up. They said they weren't sure and asked if I had been involved in any suspicious activity. I said I hadn't. Then they checked their database and asked about this blog.

'You seem to be quite off message Mr. Fugger', they said.

'So?' I said.

'Well, we're just keeping an eye out that's all', they said.

There hasn't been any terrorist activity since the 2012 Olympics atrocity but it still seems we all need watching out for. I have never written anything even remotely in support of violence but, as Sir Kevin Myers recently argued in the newspaper, scepticism is, in and of itself, a form of violence. No, the argument didn't make much sense to me either but most people seem to have embraced his logic.

'I like the drones', is a typical pronouncement of the man on the street, 'they make me feel safer and if you've nothing to hide why worry?'

I considered making my own drone to watch the drone that was watching me. It's a simple matter of making a remote control aircraft with a camera attached that sends the images to your laptop. Then I remembered that homemade drone manufacture is illegal. This is to prevent terrorists making drones and flying them into cars and so on. That has never happened but it probably would if it was allowed to. Besides that, as Sir Myers argued on a recent TV panel discussion, 'what's the point in being watched if you are watching back'. The audience applauded.

The drone followed me all the way as I visited the Mother in the old folks home. My drone met her drone (they've been following her since the first day the state outsourced law enforcement) and the two drones seemed to get along very well. The Mother said the world had come to a sorry pass. She said it was Orwellian but then she remembered that Orwell's analogy was about communist countries so 1984 couldn't possibly apply to us. Then she went off and joined the other oldies as they did that new form of extreme Tai Chi to the tune of White Riot by The Clash (the oldies love the tunes from their own day). I headed off. My fuckin drone followed.

In the following days and nights the drone bothered me more and more. It was whirring outside my window late at night. The noise off the thing combined with the perpetual hum from the coastal fracking operation and the two sounds really did my head in. The lack of sleep eventually caused me to lose it and one morning I opened my kitchen window and fucked a saucepan at the levitating shithead. I hit it and it made a funny noise and crashed into a lamppost. It wasn't long before security personnel arrived and I was carted off to the community assistance centre (formerly known as the cop shop).

They smiled and spoke gently as they scanned my retina, took my prints, and attached an electronic tag to my ankle.

'Why are you so disagreeable Mr. Fugger?' one asked.

'Because the world has become disagreeable.'

'I don't think most people would agree with you there Mr. Fugger.'

'That's because most people have lost the ability to disagree with you.'

'Me?'

'Yeah, you lot.'

'And just who are us lot?'

'The powers that be. The servants of the establishment.'

'This all seems a bit nebulous Mr. Fugger. Could you be more specific?'

'If you don't know it's too late for you.'

'Do you not like being protected Mr. Fugger?'

'Not when I'm treated like the thing that I'm supposedly being protected against.'

'There is no need to feel that way Mr. Fugger.'

'Yes there is, you've tagged me.'

'We're only protecting our property Mr. Fugger.'

'There are more important things than property.'

'Like what Mr. Fugger?'

'Liberty for a start.'

'Aren't you free Mr. Fugger?'

'No.'

'Well, let's imagine for a moment that you are correct Mr. Fugger, which you are not but let's imagine for a moment that you are. What would you do with your freedom if you had it?'

'Well, I'd. . .'

(I paused.)

'You'd what Mr. Fugger?'

'I'd. . .'

(There was a longer pause as I thought about it.)

'Are you happy Mr. Fugger?'

'Huh? Yeah! Sure! . . .sometimes.'

'Are you happy with your lot?'

'In some ways.'

'We don't think you are Mr. Fugger.'

'And how would you know?'

'We've been watching you remember.'

'Oh yeah.'

'And we haven't been watching a happy man Mr. Fugger.'

(I said nothing.)

'We think you're seeking catharsis by transposing the source of your woe on to our little system. A system everyone, all the rest of us, have agreed upon Mr. Fugger. A system that only wants to see you safe and secure and happy.'

'Yeah, as long as I can pay for it right?'

'Money greases the wheels Mr. Fugger, most have agreed to that social contract, the exceptions being internet malcontents and, of course, terrorists.'

'You're saying I'm a terrorist now?'

'No, Mr. Fugger, I am saying that you are a very unhappy man.'

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the anxiety caused by my arrest, but something about that last thing he said caused tears to run down my cheeks. I was silently crying and soon I was loudly sobbing. My head was on the security person's chest and he was cradling me and saying 'there there, there there'. I felt a right fool but I also felt I had broken through something, something inside my own head. Why was I so defensive? Why did I kick against a world that was only there to make things easier for me? A world that was only watching me so it could watch my back. Why did I accuse the world of denying me freedom when it was me who was denying myself freedom. It dawned on me that the real source of my misery was fear. A fear of my own freedom. I didn't know how to handle it and so had made myself prisoner of the fantasy of societal unfreedom. My God but this fella was good. Within the space of a short conversation he had shown me that my prison was self-imposed and that I could actually be a free and content man. All I had to do was shut up. All I had to do was shut the fuck up and go home and watch the telly or call a friend and talk about the telly or whatever else we wanted to talk about because we were free to talk about whatever we wanted as long as we didn't talk about not being free because to entertain such notions was, in and of itself, a threat to freedom.

I was allowed to return home later that day. When I got back I climbed into bed and tried to get some well needed sleep. The ankle tag bothered me a little but the drone had gone. It seemed I didn't need watching anymore or maybe the tag was doing the job. Either way, I no longer minded. Ultimately, I was only being protected from the enemy. Ultimately I was being protected from myself. I dozed off to the gentle hum of the fracking and I was happy. I was a happy man because tomorrow was another day and anything was possible. I was a happy man because I was free. I was a happy man because the future belonged to me. It belongs to to all of us. Enjoy it. You must.

A FATHER’S DAY TRIBUTE TO THE MOTHER

(above: Fugger and The Mother, when we were doing the black thing)

The Mother is very useful. Without her I’d have died of malnutrition as an infant and she’s been a great help in many ways since, not least in the ring. As anyone aware of our wrestling careers can attest, The Mother and I have dished out a few pastings in our time. Together, we were the devastating tag team Oedipus Wrecks. We were greatly feared but, like any tag team, we had our share of gruelling matches. We’ve been sorely tested in the squared circle but when you’re getting a right battering from some huge bollix like The Undertaker, there is no one better to tag to than The Mother. You’d be bruised and delirious, wondering why you got into the ring in the first place, and crawling to the corner. You’d use up the last of your strength to stretch out your hand and The Mother would always be there for you, reaching back, tagging in. She’d give the bloody Undertaker a piece of her mind let me tell you and even if an opponent got her with a chair shot, The Mother always kicked out before the three count. Her moonsault from the top rope was a sight to behold too. Oh yeah. And even if we lost, as we sometimes did, she’d make sure we didn’t lose face by picking up a member of the winning team and slamming them through the Spanish announce table. There’d be boos from the audience alright but The Mother wouldn’t give a hoot. ‘Sure I couldn’t give a hoot’, she’d say over the microphone and then she’d high kick the referee in the face for good measure.

Oh, she’s a formidable woman The Mother and I just thought I’d salute her as her birthday is here again. She always wanted the music embedded below to be our entrance theme but the promoters thought it too melancholy. They gave us O Fortuna by Carl Orff instead. She was happy enough with that but here, as a tribute to The Mother, is the theme she would have preferred. This tune makes her go all weepy when she sits back and recalls fond memories, like the time she jumped from a twelve foot ladder and landed on a prone Cactus Jack who was laid out unconscious on a fold-out table beneath her. ‘Oh that learned him and no mistake’, The Mother says to herself as she wipes away a proud tear. So, hats off to The Mother and to The Mothers everywhere. They’re a very useful shower you must admit. Just keep them away from the refs or you’re looking at a suspension.

Oh and yeah, I know it’s Father’s Day and The Father was useful enough too (slyly throwing brass knuckles into the ring as he so often did) but Father’s Day was invented by some greedy card company or something and so should be ignored. Anyway, here’s the music. . .

THE AUDACITY OF HOPE

Myself and the Mother were at College Green on Monday to see President Obama. We had a placard made up and everything. It said ‘Obama: Best Black Ever!’ A garda took it off us though. Racist.

We had a lovely time anyway and even got to meet the great man. (The Mother’s a past master at the old Turkish Revenge and this got us to the front of the throng pronto.) When President Obama neared us, I reached out to him and roared ‘you’re a first rate black, absolutely first rate’. I could see from the look on his face that he was affected by my words. The Mother ruined it all though when, somewhat over-exuberantly, she thrust a tin biscuit assortments box in President Obama’s direction. We’d have been shot had the box not dropped to the ground and opened, revealing its innocent content of scones. ‘They’re better off on the ground anyway’, I said to The Mother, ‘they’d have only half poisoned him like they do me’. The Mother scowled and flashed her blade so I said no more about it.

On the way home, The Mother and I discussed President Obama’s speech and it got us thinking about the power of words. ‘You know The Mother’, I said, ‘you can change almost anything just by saying a little something. You can empower people. You can enable them to rise to challenges’.

The Mother agreed and cited MLK’s ‘I have a dream’ speech, JFK’s ‘ask not’ inaugural address and Brian Lenihan’s ‘patriotic duty’ outburst as well as the time King George VI told everyone to batter the Nazis because they were even more anti-Semitic than he was. ‘Indeed The Mother’, I said, ‘if they are spoken well and if they are properly heard, the right words can turn almost any negative into a positive and bring hope where once there was none’.

It was then we remembered Uncle Larry, laid out in James’ Hospital and in need of a pep talk. ‘Let’s bring Larry a bit of Obama magic’ suggested The Mother so we hopped off the bus and went to visit him. I am sad to say that myself and The Mother’s voluminous and constant chanting of ‘is féidir leat’ at Larry's bedside did little to put his tennis ball sized tumour into remission. Uncle Larry passed away later that evening. The Mother and I returned home deflated by the realisation that, no matter how well expressed, sometimes words are not enough.

A VISITOR

More cats have gone missing in the locality. As usual, the eye of suspicion has fallen upon myself and The Mother.

A garda called to the door at the ungodly hour of 1.20 pm (barely lunchtime). Needless to say, I was smoking cigarettes in bed with a copy of Obama's excellent Dreams From My Father on my lap. (Reading extracts from this tome aloud in the best approximation of the great man's voice one can muster provides an inspirational start to the day - I recommend it). Anyway, the bell kept going and I knew herself wasn't going to budge. Unlike most of us, The Mother is usually out of bed by this time but she likes to spend her afternoons sat in the lounge, donned in the wedding dress, looking through family albums and reminiscing. 1 to 4 pm finds her utterly lost, lost in the haunted ballroom of her mind, ghostly renditions of Boyer's Huckle Buck resounding throughout. 'Doing a Havisham' is how I refer to it. There's no talking to her when she's like that.

In high dudgeon, I ceased my recitations and clambered out of the bed to open the door. Once The Mother realised we had visitors, she was up on her feet and treating it like a social call, which it was not. She offered the garda a sherry, put cocktail sausages under the grill and brought out a bowl filled with Tayto and peanuts. The dog's bowl, but never mind. 'The sausages will be a little while but here's some crisps and nuts that are collectively called nibbles,' explained The Mother. She then made a further contribution to both the conversation and circumstantial evidence by adding, 'I once had a cat called Nibbles but my son made me have it destroyed.' Contesting this version of events, I said, 'now Mammy, you know well the vet said we should ease Nibbles' suffering'.
'Ease his suffering, they've euphemisms for everything these days' said The Mother.
Becoming agitated, I raised my voice. 'The creature was sick,' I yelled.
'Don't get excited love, we're only making chat,' said The Mother dismissively before asking the garda if he had a cat himself. 'I do,' said the garda. I saw The Mother narrow her eyes and go for the kill, 'and would you like to have it destroyed do you think?' she asked. The unfortunate garda stumbled over his words, trapped as he was between my pyjama clad distress and The Mother's steely gaze. 'Perhaps, if she was in pain,' he mumbled, siding with me. As a punitive measure, The Mother revoked the offer of nuts and crisps, taking the dog's bowl from the garda and carrying it out of the room. 'Nibbles wasn't in pain, he was just poorly,' she said as she departed. The garda looked at me and faintly smiled. His eyes then dropped and I could have sworn he took a mental note of the Sharpton in 04 badge pinned to my pyjama lapel. 'Subversive,' I almost heard him think.

The Mother came back into the room, dispelling an awkward silence. 'Would you like to see a picture of him?' she asked the garda.
'Who?' asked the garda.
'Why Nibbles of course,' answered The Mother, picking up a family album and searching through its pages. She carried the album over to the garda and pointed into it. The garda's face crinkled into a portrait of uncomfortable bewilderment. 'That's your cat?' he asked. The Mother took a closer look and laughed. 'Oh no, not at all, what am I thinking?' she said, 'that's not Nibbles, that's my late husband'. The Mother then informed the garda, with excessive bluntness I thought, how my father died in hotel fire during their honeymoon. 'It matters little,' she said, 'I had conceived by then, his lordship over there safely stationed in the womb.' The 'lordship' referred to being me, as The Mother made clear via a disdainful nod in my direction. 'You know,' she added wistfully, 'a hotel fire is not a pleasant way to go but had my husband lived I've no doubt his lordship would've found a way to, what's the expression, oh yes, . . .ease his suffering.' I attempted to counter this salient attempt to place me in the dock as a potential cat vanisher but The Mother spoke over me. She told the garda how she was once considered the belle of the ball and could've had any man in the town. 'I settled for his lordship's father as he owned the local newsagents and was well stocked in Curly Wurlies, my favourite foodstuff at the time,' explained The Mother. 'Of course, you can't get Curly Wurlies these days,' she went on, 'I suppose someone eased their suffering too'. As The Mother pontificated the fate of the Curly Wurly, the garda made his excuses, backed into the hall and darted out the front door.

From my bedroom window, I watched the garda quickly make his way down the drive. I hope he made it back to the station safely. Nyx's gloomy cobwebbing still covers the sky and there are things out there. Bad things. Was that The Mother's lacy gown I spied in the undergrowth? Was there a hint of something peeking from the hedges, that crossbow she ordered from the outdoor activities shop? Regardless, we've not had any cat related inquiries since.